Camp and Trail eBook

“Hurrah!” he cried. “There’s
the home of storms! There’s old Katahdin!
The Indians named it Ktaadn ‘the biggest mountain.’”

“Want to hear the Indian legend about it, lads?”
asked Dr. Phil.

A general chirp of assent was his reply, and the doctor
began:—­

“Well, when the redskins owned these forests,
they believed that the summit of Katahdin was the
home of their evil spirit, or, as they call him, ‘The
Big Devil.’ He was named Pamolah. And
he was a mighty unpleasant sort of neighbor.
Once, so tradition says, he ran away with a beautiful
Indian maiden, and carried her up to his lonely lair
among those peaks. When her tribe tried to rescue
her, he let loose great storms upon them, his artillery
being thunder, lightning, hail, and rain, before which
they were forced to flee helter-skelter. An old
red chief long ago told me the story, and added gravely
that ’it was sartin true, for han’some
squaw always catch ’em debil.’

“The foundation of the legend lies in the fact
that there really is a very curious granite basin
among Katahdin’s peaks, and it is the birthplace
of most storms which sweep over our State. I myself
have seen clouds forming in it, when I made an ascent
of the mountain in my younger days, and whirling out
in all directions. The roar of its winds may
sometimes be heard miles away. There are several
ponds in the basin; one of them, a tiny, clear lake,
without any visible outlet, is Pamolah’s fishing-ground.
That’s the yarn about the mountain as I heard
it.”

[Illustration: IntheshadowoftheKatahdin.]

“Ain’t it a’most time for us to
be gittin’ down from this Horseback, Doc?”
asked Joe, who had been listening with the others.
“I thought we’d reach the farm you’re
heading for to-night, but we’re half a dozen
miles off it yet; and we can’t do more’n
another mile or two afore it’ll be time to halt
and make camp. There’s some pretty bad travelling
and a plaguy bit of swamp ahead.”

“I guess you’re about right, Joe,”
said Doc, rising with alacrity from the stone where
he had seated himself while telling his yarn.

Joe’s bad travelling meant a great deal of tripping
and floundering through soft mud and mire, with slippery
moss-stones sandwiched in, and dwarfed bushes which
ran along the ground, and twisted themselves in an
almost impassable tangle. These had a knack of
catching a fellow’s feet, and causing him to
sprawl forward on his face and hands, whereupon his
knapsack would hit him an astounding thwack on the
back.

After three-quarters of an hour of this fun, very
muddy, clammy with perspiration, and thoroughly winded,
the party reached firmer ground, and the guides called
a halt.

“Guess we’d better rest a bit,”
said Joe, “afore we go farther. There’s
nothing in forest travelling that’ll take the
breath out of a man like crossing a swamp,”
eying compassionately the city folk; for he himself
was as “fit” as when he started. “Then
we’d better follow that stream till we strike
a good place for a camping-ground. What say, Doc?”